September 4th
Last night I woke up around 3:30 a.m. after having dreamed--or at least I think it was a dream--the following:
I'm alone, sitting in a dark, bare room. A voice speaks to me, though it is not an audible voice--nor is it inside my head. I'm aware of this: that it's both something intuitive and something transcendent. It's telling me that after we die, we are not asked whether we believed a certain creed (thus earning a crown and hearing "Well done, thou good and faithful servant!") or whether our names are written in the Lamb's Registry. Rather, we're asked why we settled for seeking connection with the (divine?) through religion. Organized religion, the voice seems to be saying, is a limitation. Don't settle for it. There is so much more.
It was weird. It didn't feel like the mythological god or heavenly beings I typically envision. The experience felt more like some kind of appointment with an unnamable, all-encompassing energy that wasn't quite "other." That sounds so New-Agey. I don't mean it to. I just don't know how else to describe it.
Perhaps poetry is the articulation of dreams. To me, it comes closest to voicing intuition and naming transcendence. Emily Dickinson spoke the language of dreams well. "Truth," she said, "is such a rare thing it is delightful to tell it." Gaston Bachelard, in his astonishing Water and Dreams, put it this way: "When forms, mere perishable forms and vain images--perpetual change of surfaces--are put aside, these images of matter are dreamt substantially and intimately. They have weight; they constitute a heart." Julian Augustus wrote, "I am not much drawn to any form which has lost its meaning."
What is the "more?" Like most truth, it is ironic. The "more" isn't the transcendence of forms nor the mastery of forms but the reception of forms into the human imagination. [Receptivity is an "anima" attribute, by the way. I just watched The Vagina Monologues and was reminded that openness is archetypally feminine.]
Okay, what am I saying? I don't know. I really need to start writing poetry again. I spent an hour at a marsh near our house yesterday watching dragonflies flit across the water's surface. There were 3" royal blue dragonflies with striped wings, smaller red ones and ones that were smaller still--silver streaks of electricity. I watched these exquisite creatures--those born in the earth's muck--chase each other through the air like helicopters then perch on the corduroy heads of willows like gemstones. I could have sat there all day. Dragonflies are mystery in flight. They are winged desire. They begin life as mud-colored larvae crawling like beetles along the silt floor. They develop in dark, primal water. Again, to quote Bachelard, "In the depths of matter there grows an obscure vegetation; black flowers bloom in matter's darkness. They already possess a velvety touch, a formula for perfume." The brown larvae mature into brilliant insects that iridate the sky. These blooms graced me yesterday with perfume. I let the scent fill my nostrils. It entered my imagination. Just like truth found in poems and dreams.
I'm alone, sitting in a dark, bare room. A voice speaks to me, though it is not an audible voice--nor is it inside my head. I'm aware of this: that it's both something intuitive and something transcendent. It's telling me that after we die, we are not asked whether we believed a certain creed (thus earning a crown and hearing "Well done, thou good and faithful servant!") or whether our names are written in the Lamb's Registry. Rather, we're asked why we settled for seeking connection with the (divine?) through religion. Organized religion, the voice seems to be saying, is a limitation. Don't settle for it. There is so much more.
It was weird. It didn't feel like the mythological god or heavenly beings I typically envision. The experience felt more like some kind of appointment with an unnamable, all-encompassing energy that wasn't quite "other." That sounds so New-Agey. I don't mean it to. I just don't know how else to describe it.
Perhaps poetry is the articulation of dreams. To me, it comes closest to voicing intuition and naming transcendence. Emily Dickinson spoke the language of dreams well. "Truth," she said, "is such a rare thing it is delightful to tell it." Gaston Bachelard, in his astonishing Water and Dreams, put it this way: "When forms, mere perishable forms and vain images--perpetual change of surfaces--are put aside, these images of matter are dreamt substantially and intimately. They have weight; they constitute a heart." Julian Augustus wrote, "I am not much drawn to any form which has lost its meaning."
What is the "more?" Like most truth, it is ironic. The "more" isn't the transcendence of forms nor the mastery of forms but the reception of forms into the human imagination. [Receptivity is an "anima" attribute, by the way. I just watched The Vagina Monologues and was reminded that openness is archetypally feminine.]
Okay, what am I saying? I don't know. I really need to start writing poetry again. I spent an hour at a marsh near our house yesterday watching dragonflies flit across the water's surface. There were 3" royal blue dragonflies with striped wings, smaller red ones and ones that were smaller still--silver streaks of electricity. I watched these exquisite creatures--those born in the earth's muck--chase each other through the air like helicopters then perch on the corduroy heads of willows like gemstones. I could have sat there all day. Dragonflies are mystery in flight. They are winged desire. They begin life as mud-colored larvae crawling like beetles along the silt floor. They develop in dark, primal water. Again, to quote Bachelard, "In the depths of matter there grows an obscure vegetation; black flowers bloom in matter's darkness. They already possess a velvety touch, a formula for perfume." The brown larvae mature into brilliant insects that iridate the sky. These blooms graced me yesterday with perfume. I let the scent fill my nostrils. It entered my imagination. Just like truth found in poems and dreams.
posted by Susan Adams Kauffman at 11:18 AM
4 Comments:
"openness is archetypically feminine"
I love this, it may sound 'new agey' but what is that? I might say openness is archetypally feminine. By that I mean an archetypal pattern carried through our DNA from lifetime to lifetime. I think both are true and appreciate the opportunity to talk to myself about this. (smile) -HB
Thanks, Holly, for your comment. You're right: "What is that?" I guess whenever I describe something spiritual in terms of "energy," I hear in the back of my mind the voices of Deepak Chopra or Shirley McClaine or others in that catergory who get on my nerves :) They've kind of ruined it for the rest of us--trivialized certain words/images--in my opinion.
Can you explain a little bit more what you mean by openness being carried through our DNA? Do you mean *womens'* DNA or everyone's? I was thinking of it in terms of both men and women but arising from the anima. Does that make sense?
So good to hear from you, girlfriend!
Hi Susan! What I mean is....
Patterns that are from our past lives. Those memories are stored somewhere, maybe within the DNA. How do women know to be nurturing caretakers, even women who have absent mothers and no children? Men have their patterns, too, but the openness seems feminine. I think it's catching, tho.
I am laughing because I remember when you would remind me not to use cliches. Like "spilled milk", there's a creative bone in you that doesn't want to overuse words when there's so many out there. I think that's great UNLESS it stops me from understanding something.
Sometimes I won't listen to someone, like Carolyn Myss, because they are popular and therefore, mainstream. Uncreative. But, they are usually popular for a reason. I just hunted down a CD (TRAIN)becasue of a song I like. Then I found out it won awards, I would never have bought it if I had known that, I don't listen to the radio to avoid the repetitive, popular music. Same as with cliches, only I'm not a writer. So I use cliches, it makes me feel close to dead people.
I am laughing again.... Love you-HB
Holly,
You're right about cliches (and I well remember how you used to help me set my watch for the time changes--since I was too lazy/retarded to do it myself--so take EVERYTHING I've ever said or done with a grain of salt [another nice cliche]!!)...Perhaps "energy" WAS the best word to use to describe my experience--because that's exactly what it felt like. I don't know why I apologized for it. And anyway, you're right: it IS kind of comforting to think about how our great, great, great grandmothers would have told us that cleanliness is next to godliness and to avoid getting into covered wagon accidents wearing dirty underwear. :) I agree with you about the feminine being carried in our DNA and think that there IS more receptiveness among males these days. It's kind of very wonderful. I'm trying to encourage it in my boys--as I know you have with yours. Take care. Love you!
Post a Comment
<< Home